Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,30

you think that best.” She sounded so disappointed, as though her whole world had crumbled.

“Wait,” Nash said.

Miss Howard gasped. She actually gasped in excitement.

“Explain how I read this”—he shook the paper—“with my fingertips.”

“Come here, and I will show you.” She took his free hand in one of hers, her hand warm and slim and strong in his, and tugged him in the direction of the parlor. He did not like the parlor. It held unpleasant memories, but he went anyway because, well—how could he refuse? She led him so confidently.

“Here we are.” She had guided him to a chair, and he felt for the arms then sat. She took his hand and placed it on top of the paper. He thought she would release him, but instead, she stood close beside him and took one of his fingers and tried to drag it across the paper. “Mr. Pope, you have to relax your hand and allow me to guide you,” she said. He did as she said, if only because she stood so close to him. He could feel the heat of her body, and he caught the scent of her as she leaned close. She still smelled of pine and cinnamon as well as fresh air. He leaned closer to her, trying to catch more of her scent.

“Do you feel that?” she asked.

Unfortunately, he didn’t feel anything. But he thought he could reach out and wrap a hand about her waist, pull her to his lap, and then he might feel something of interest. And then he realized she was speaking of his fingers. She was dragging his pointer finger over the rough edges of a piece of paper.

“It’s the paper,” he said.

“It’s writing,” she said.

Confused, he tried to concentrate on what his finger was touching. It was difficult with her hand on his, but focus was a discipline he had mastered, and gradually he was aware that his finger was touching a pattern of bumps in the paper.

“Is it a code?” he asked after a moment.

“In a way, yes. Monsieur Barbier created a type of writing where each set of dots on the paper corresponds to a letter. So this one”—she dragged his hand over a pattern—“is for D and this for E and this for A and this for R.” Methodically, she placed his hand on each pattern and allowed him to feel it before moving to the next.

“This is a letter?” he asked.

“Yes. This is the salutation. You just read Dear.” She sounded so very excited that it was difficult not to allow himself to become excited as well. But he’d also had years of training to tamp down any sort of emotion—excitement chief among them. He remained impassive.

“Who is the letter to?”

“Ah! Let’s keep reading. This is a P and this is...” She trailed off.

“E?” he asked. “No, R.”

“Yes! That is amazing. You learn very quickly.”

“What’s this?” he asked impatiently.

“That’s a U.”

“Pru? Dear Pru?” Could that be right?

“It’s addressed to me,” she said. “My Christian name is Prudence, but my family call me Pru.”

Prudence. Nash felt like laughing at the irony. This woman was anything but prudent. “Then this is a letter from your family?”

“It’s from my sister, yes.” She was still holding his hand in hers, and she seemed to be absently stroking his fingers as she spoke. He did not pull away. In fact, he held very still, hoping she would not notice and cease. How long had it been since someone had held his hand? How long since he had been touched or caressed like this? Her hand on his was like a drink of cold water to a man who has been wandering in the desert.

“She is blind?” he asked, his voice a bit hoarse.

“Yes. She became sick with fever about ten years ago in Constantinople. She was burning hot for days, and it seemed nothing we could do would cool her down. We would put a cool cloth on her forehead, and a minute later it would be hot to the touch. She finally recovered, but the doctor said the high fever damaged her eyes.”

“Where is she now?” he asked. His heart had started to pound. He was afraid he knew the answer. She was in an asylum. Miss Howard had said her parents were missionaries. Certainly, they would not take a blind girl to the Far East if they would not take their daughter who could see. And what else was there to do with a someone who could